Join me on my journey through parenthood. BYOHelmet.

I keep waiting for some mythical inspiration, but I think I’m setting the bar too high. Maybe you’re satisfied to stop by and see crappy phone pictures of my giant-headed offspring shoving oranges into his gob at the park.

I told you his head was huge. Still above 90th percentile as his body drops to around 40th.

This is the look I got when I asked him to smile. The teenage years are going to be AWESOME.

Those aren’t just any oranges, by the way. Those are hand-selected by his loving great-grandparents, bigger-than-your-head (but not his) oranges from the Valley and he is smitten. Never again will he be satisfied with a paltry little clementine. Now, he says “I wanna orange. A BIG ONE.” and makes this huge O with his mouth because he is overwhelmed at the heft of them.

Oh, and the suckitude factor upstairs has diminished exponentially so YAY for that.

My upstairs neighbors have sucked sucked sucked since the day I moved in. They don’t get home until 9 or 10 each night, but when they do they stomp around and reinact Mexican wrestling matches until the cows come home. Night after night, I’ve cringed in my bed after ever slam/thud/shudder wondering if that’s the one that’s going to wake up A and send me over the edge. I envisioned snatching him up, running up the stairs in my underpants with crazy bedhead and confronting them. Luckily, I’ve seen enough episodes of nightline to know that beating on strangers’ doors isn’t the best course of action, so I have refrained. Each time I have vowed that I will call the apartment office the next day, but I never do. Maybe it wasn’t that loud, I tell myself. I’ll look foolish, I think. That’s a first world problem for sure, I say.

Not tonight. Tonight, I had enough. One too many thud/cringe combos and I dialed the courtesy officer before I could lose my nerve. He was so very pleasant and reassuring (Me: “They’re like stomping? On my head? and it makes me sad? But I don’t want to hurt their feelings?” Him: “There’s no reason for that. Call this number. We’ll send someone. It’s all going to be okay, ma’am.”)

And send someone they did. He was a strapping young man with a friendly smile, or maybe it was more like when dogs bare their teeth out of fear? I’d be scared too if a crazy lady threw open her door, revealing a completely dark house and her standing there looking like Weird Al on a bad hair day, with a towel held over her body to hide the fact that she was in her underwear and totally unprepared for gentleman callers. Especially if she then hissed at me that “my son is SLEEPING in the room right there” and gestured to the window,causing the towel to slip a bit, “and my neighbors may not know that I live here or they may just be raging assholes I’m not sure but can you please make it stop and I swear I’m not crazy kthxbai.”

I probably should have found a better way to introduce myself than by dispatching the cops to their door and I hope they don’t hate me. Maybe there’s a single female in the residence and she’ll appreciate the city’s finest on her doorstep. I don’t hold out much hope even then, because I’m pretty sure I just scared him off women forever.

Apparently, it’s really cold outside. And there’s lots of ice. That’s what people on facebook are saying. I haven’t crossed the threshold myself since Monday afternoon. And once a day, a friendly automated system calls me to say that school is closed and I am to remain under house arrest for yet another day.

Thank goodness Andrew and I heeded the warnings of of the weathercasters, who did everything short of standing on street corners with signs declaring the End Times to let us know It Was Coming (see: Weather Girl vs. Homeless Guy: The Similarities are Striking), and went to the grocery store before the Epic Weatherological Event. Truth be told, I didn’t really buy into the hype as evidenced by my failure to stock up on Diet Coke. Rookie move, self.

So yeah. I just finished up 48 hours of solitary confinement with a two-year-old, who enjoyed way more than his share of Barney and Elmo. We bounced back and forth between those, episodes of Thomas the Train and Bob the Builder, and baseball on the wii. He calls it “hit the ball” as in “I play hit the ball, mama!” and while he can’t hit for crap, the boy can pitch.

So there’s a parental confession for you. Instead of using this ample time to make our own soap or fold 1,000 paper cranes, I basically tethered my kid to technology. Most of that time, though, I was cheering him on or stroking his hair as we watched The Best of Elmo for the millionth time.

Once, I did get all fancy and try to capture him singing his ABCs. He cooperated through the letter G, then launched a projectile at my head just as my camera battery died right alongside my motivation.

I relinquished him into his dad’s care today and I cried more than a few tears as they walked away. But then I also caught up on American Pickers and took a nap and I’m okay(ish). Just found out school is canceled again tomorrow, so now we’re trying to work out the logistics of toddler juggling (dangerous!) and it looks like I may get some time with him tomorrow, too.

Guess I’d better get back to watching Pawn Stars while I have the chance.